The Second Siege

  Max frowned and ran to retrieve Nick from where the lymrill was standing on his hind legs to examine a plump were-rat specimen. Seconds later, their pod had reversed out of the gallery and rejoined one of the disk-lined tubes.

  They glided along for several minutes until the pod eased to a stop and they stepped out into a clearing where a Grecian temple opened onto a small sunken amphitheater ringed by olive trees. Several dozen young children sat on the steps, listening to an elderly woman who was demonstrating an antique-looking device that resembled a sort of vise. The woman pulled the handle, which turned a large screw that, in turn, lowered a metal-faced woodblock, pressing it tight against a sheet of parchment. The children clapped as the woman removed the parchment and displayed an inked broadsheet.

  Max stared at the children. They looked almost identical; dark olive skin, bright blue eyes, and close-cropped black hair.

  “Our youngest students, learning the basics,” said Rasmussen, stepping out.

  “Are they clones?” asked Miss Boon, squinting at them.

  “Of course not,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “We do practice some eugenics, of course, but we have a healthy respect for nature as well. Some genetic traits are controlled; others are left to chance. We find it maximizes advantageous characteristics while still allowing for evolutionary outliers.”

  The man smiled and inclined his head deferentially toward Max and David.

  “But you wear glasses,” said Miss Boon. “And you’re—”

  “Bald.” Dr. Rasmussen smiled. “Totally hairless, actually—alopecia universalis. All evolutionary disadvantages, I know, but it’s a law at the Workshop that only nonengineered humans can attain certain levels of seniority. It’s an important safeguard against the temptations of total optimization. That could lead to dangerous levels of genetic convergence, an evolutionary no-no.”

  He led them around the rim of the amphitheater, strolling toward the columned temple.

  “Hello, Dr. Rasmussen,” chimed the children.

  “Hello, children,” he said, waving amicably. “What have you got there?”

  “Gutenberg’s press,” said a proud-faced girl, holding up a sheet of freshly inked type.

  “And what’s so special about it?” asked Dr. Rasmussen.

  “It used movable, durable type to create a mechanical printing process,” answered the girl.

  “So what?” asked Dr. Rasmussen with an irreverent shrug. “Why should we care?”

  The girl blushed and sat down. Her immediate neighbor stood and continued.

  “A mechanical printing process was much more efficient than handwritten manuscripts. Information and ideas could be disseminated more easily, democratizing knowledge and creating a primitive network effect.”

  “Excellent,” Dr. Rasmussen said, clapping. “And what permitted this transformation?”

  “A machine,” crowed the children.

  “And what is a machine?” asked Dr. Rasmussen, feigning ignorance.

  “A machine is any device that transmits or modifies energy to perform useful work,” chimed the children.

  “Carry on, then,” said Dr. Rasmussen, waving good-bye and strolling casually toward the temple. Max and David followed behind, glancing back at the children, who had clambered up to the top steps to watch them with open, curious faces.

  “Dr. Rasmussen,” called Miss Boon. “Please stop for a moment.”

  “What is it, Miss Boon?”

  “This tour’s very enlightening, but I’m curious that you’ve never once asked the purpose of our visit.”

  “But I know the purpose of your visit, Miss Boon. You seek something secreted here by Elias Bram—something to do with the Book of Thoth.”

  “Well, yes,” said the teacher, blinking rapidly. “I happen to think it’s in Aachen. You see, Charlemagne’s tomb is located there, and it might—”

  “It is not in Aachen,” said Dr. Rasmussen with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It is here. We have found a chamber constructed by Bram.”

  “Have you got it, then?” asked Cooper quietly.

  “No,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “Try as we might, we haven’t been able to open the chamber.”

  “How’s that?” asked Miss Boon. “It seems you have a machine for everything.”

  Dr. Rasmussen smiled coldly. His small, reptilian eyes shifted from her to David.

  “We don’t need a machine, Miss Boon,” he said. “We need a Sorcerer.”

  10

  BRAM’S KEY

  They followed Dr. Rasmussen to the temple, passing through a six-columned peristyle and into the clean marble structure. A richly laid table was set at the center, around which were seated a dozen Workshop officials. One young face was conspicuous among them, and Max found himself waving back to Jason Barrett, who had risen with the others as they arrived. Jason looked much older than the last time Max had seen him—like a full-grown man. He strode forward to greet them.

  “Max, Miss Boon, it’s great to see you!” he said in his southern drawl, tousling Max’s hair and shaking Miss Boon’s hand politely. “Man, you’re getting big,” he said, giving Max a jab on the shoulder, glancing curiously at the nanomail peeking from his sweater. Introductions were made. From people’s titles, it seemed the Workshop was organized into three main divisions: Energy, Matter, and Applications. The Rowan visitors shook hands with the heads of each and their direct reports before the group was seated. As the meal was served, Max was delighted to see that even Nick had been provided for—a deep tureen of slim metal ingots kept the lymrill noisily occupied. Max poked dubiously at a tofu dish masquerading as meat while Rasmussen initiated conversation.

  “We are most indebted to Rowan for paying us such a timely visit,” said Dr. Rasmussen, raising a glass of cabernet. “Indeed, I must admit we have become a bit exasperated by the problem.”

  “And what exactly is the problem?” asked Miss Boon.

  “Bram’s Chamber,” replied the head of Energy. “Its door has proven inexplicably difficult.”

  “I can’t make heads or tails of it,” said Jason Barrett, passing a curry dish to Max. “And it’s ruined a lot of equipment. It’s wound with magic, but whatever binding spell’s on it is way out of my league. I think it’d give even ol’ Kraken fits.”

  “Miss Kraken,” said Miss Boon icily, eliciting a hasty apology. She turned her attention to Dr. Rasmussen. “I’m curious that you simply happened upon this chamber, Doctor. If I recall you seemed to doubt that the Book of Thoth even existed.”

  Dr. Rasmussen held up his hands in a guilty, supplicating gesture.

  “What else could I do, Miss Boon? I was skeptical, yes, but in which direction should I err? If the Book does not exist, we have indulged a wild-goose chase. If it does and we permit Astaroth to pursue it at his pleasure, then we have let laziness endanger us. As a leader, I cannot permit the latter. Following our council at Rowan, I consulted my advisors. We discovered that Elias Bram did indeed spend considerable time here in 1646. Old schematics revealed that he had assisted us in hollowing out some of the lower levels, including some shafts that were later discontinued and sealed off long ago. We opened them and found something most unusual.”

  “Bram’s Chamber,” said Miss Boon.

  “Indeed.”

  “We should like to have a look at it,” said Miss Boon.

  “After supper, we should very much like you to,” said Rasmussen, opening another bottle of wine. He shifted the conversation to other topics, predominately the status of major cities and population migrations across the continent. Max ate quietly, trying to keep up with the engineers’ various reports while Jason bombarded him with questions about the witches and Rowan. Jason’s questions were pleasant but puzzling—he seemed oddly detached from the situation aboveground.

  “Jason, is your family okay?” asked Max, abandoning the tofu brick in its sauce.

  “Actually, they’re here,” he replied, attacking a bowl of greens. “Everyone—aunts and uncles, too.
Soon as things started going bad, the Workshop brought them in.”

  “Wow,” said Max. “I guess that’s a good thing.”

  “They’ve adjusted to this place easier than to what was happening outside,” said Jason with a sober nod. “Apparently things were getting mighty strange at home. My uncle had a farm—swears something was calling to him from his well.”

  Max grimaced at the thought. The field offices must have been working nonstop—if they were even still investigating such minor curiosities. Max was anxious to see Bram’s Chamber and heaved a private sigh of relief when dessert was served. Once David had finished a jaw-dropping fifth cup of coffee, the meal was brought to a conclusion. In the commotion of the group rising from their seats, Jason casually leaned close to Max.

  “Keep a close eye on Nick,” he whispered.

  “What?” asked Max, but Jason merely began speaking to a Senior Matter Specialist about some recent conductivity tests. Max looked anxiously for Nick, who was now dozing in the tureen with a belly as round and taut as a pumpkin.

  “Do you know how he does it?” asked a willowy woman to Max’s right.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The lymrill,” she said, pointing at Nick. “How his body metabolizes food and metal alike.”

  “I have no idea,” said Max.

  “Fascinating,” said the woman, “to think that it possesses some process or enzyme that can convert common metals into something extraordinary. Have you ever plucked one of his quills?”

  “No,” said Max, appalled. “I don’t think he’d like that.”

  “Hmmm,” said the woman, eyeing Nick thoughtfully.

  “And I’d hate to see what would happen if someone tried,” added Max pointedly. “Nick’s a tank.”

  The woman smiled and drifted away to where Dr. Rasmussen was gathering them at another pod bank at the rear of the temple. A transport glided forward from a queue of several. Artificial sunlight reflected on a shallow fountain, sending shimmering bands of gold dancing on the pod’s silver surface. Max gazed up at the Grecian masks and statues that adorned the temple space. It was all too surreal. He scooped Nick up from his slumber and slung the heavy body across his shoulders like a recent kill, much to the amusement of Dr. Rasmussen.

  The pods glided one after another, banking out of the temple and down a long tube that seemed to run along the pyramid’s periphery. Veering gently to the right, they suddenly plunged down a raw, wide mineshaft of dark rock and winking crystals. Max felt his stomach gurgle; David had closed his eyes and was humming quietly to himself.

  At last the pods began to decelerate, arriving at a hollowed chamber half the size of a gymnasium. Fluorescent lights were scattered about an intricate latticework of temporary supports and braces. Formidable earthmoving machines and drills lay off to the side; Max noticed the massive bits had been worn down like spent erasers. Two dozen engineers were already there, scouring blueprints and diagrams from a mobile workstation of computer screens and some sort of hologram projector. They appeared exhausted, turning to stare at the new arrivals with blank expressions. Max looked past them to where a round stone door was set into the rock face.

  “Any new developments?” asked Rasmussen cheerfully.

  “No, sir,” said a cadaverous-looking woman with close-cropped white hair.

  “Well. I’ve brought you some new tools,” said Rasmussen. “Perhaps you’ll give our guests a summary of what we’ve learned to date.”

  The woman folded her arms.

  “Well,” she said lightly, “what we have here is a door. A door with no handles or visible hinges. A door that our sensors say is made of mere granite, and yet it causes our hardest drills to crumble like cheese—when we can even position them close enough to touch it.”

  “Why is it difficult to get a drill close?” asked Cooper.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” she snapped. Removing a metal stylus from her front pocket, she lobbed it toward the door. It stopped in midflight and dropped to the floor as though it had struck an invisible wall.

  “What about a laser?” asked Miss Boon.

  The woman glared at the Mystics instructor.

  “Yes, we’d managed to think of that, too,” she answered, following a pregnant pause. “The resulting explosion killed three engineers and nearly collapsed the tunnel. Perhaps the young lady brought a can opener?”

  Miss Boon sighed and turned to Dr. Rasmussen.

  “May we have a look?”

  “By all means,” he replied. “Please forgive Dr. Braden—she’s not accustomed to obstacles more immovable than herself.”

  The woman nodded with stiff formality as Miss Boon swept past with David in tow. Max felt a flash of admiration for the young instructor, who seemed utterly uncowed by the formidable engineer. He and Cooper were following behind when David suddenly stopped. He removed Bram’s talisman and passed it back to Max.

  “It’s tugging at my neck,” he explained. “If you’re wearing metal, you should stay right here.”

  Max and Cooper looked at each other; both were wearing nanomail, and Cooper always carried several weapons. The area ahead was suddenly illuminated by a pair of spectral white orbs conjured by Miss Boon. She and David stood before the circular door, which was some ten feet in diameter and carved of a grayish green stone flecked with bits of black. In the center of the door was the profile of an ibis-headed figure that Max knew to be the Egyptian god Thoth. The door’s outer edge was carved with a dozen cat-sized ants in a frozen march around the perimeter. Between the ants and the image of Thoth were thousands of hieroglyphs that had been inscribed with surgical precision.

  David and Miss Boon conversed quietly while Dr. Rasmussen and the other senior officials came to congregate behind Max and Cooper, just beyond the reach of the force emanating from the door. Miss Boon levitated several feet off the ground to peer at some inscriptions near the top; David backed away to survey the whole. As their examination lapsed into mysterious silence, Dr. Braden began to grumble. For several minutes, David did not move, standing quietly with his hands clasped behind him as though admiring a work of art. Suddenly, David clapped his hands. His young voice rang off the walls.

  “Little myrmex, little myrmex, awake! The Sorcerer has come and recalls you to life.”

  Nothing happened.

  “ ‘Sorcerer’ indeed,” sneered Dr. Braden. “Now, perhaps we can get back to—”

  “Shhh,” muttered Rasmussen, holding up a finger. “Something’s happening.”

  Indeed, something was happening. A fine powder began running down the door in rivulets. Max squinted and watched the stone surrounding the carven ants dissolve to reveal a dozen shiny black bodies underneath. The enormous ants shook off the remaining bits of masonry. Elbowed antennae trembled, mandibles clicked, and they began marching along the edge in an orderly clockwise procession. Dr. Rasmussen clucked his tongue and turned to Dr. Braden with a victorious smirk.

  “See? I told you the little one was held in high esteem. Miss Boon, is the door opening?”

  Miss Boon walked over, leaving David to resume his studious pose before the door.

  “No, Dr. Rasmussen,” she replied. “There are many spells on this door—David’s only let it know that someone wishes to enter. It is still locked.”

  Dr. Braden glared at Jason Barrett.

  “Why couldn’t you do that?” she demanded.

  “It’s not Jason’s fault,” interjected Miss Boon. “The incantation may be as simple as a nursery rhyme, but it depends on who’s speaking. That door would not listen to me. I don’t think it would listen to anyone but David.”

  “But he’s a child,” scoffed Dr. Braden.

  “Dr. Braden,” said Miss Boon, “surely someone as educated as yourself doesn’t need me to explain that small things can possess tremendous energy.”

  “Of course not,” said the engineer.

  “Well, you’re looking at the most powerful Mystic the world has seen in nearly four hu
ndred years. Since Elias Bram, as a matter of fact. In my opinion, David’s not even really a Mystic—he’s a true Sorcerer.”

  “What is the difference?” asked Dr. Braden, plucking at her chin.

  “Mystics can cast spells,” said Miss Boon simply. “Sorcerers often won’t bother with such rote necessities—their energies and instincts are so great that they can simply improvise what they need. They are exceedingly rare.”

  Dr. Braden opened her mouth and then clamped it shut.

  “Is he the reason that Rowan has disappeared?” asked Dr. Rasmussen.

  “He is,” said Miss Boon.

  “I see,” said Dr. Rasmussen admiringly.

  David turned on his heel and walked over to them with his hands thrust deeply in his pockets. His young features were quiet and composed. Behind him, the ants continued in their tireless march.

  “I’ll need some quiet, so it would be best if you all left now,” he said, his eyes staring at the floor.

  Dr. Rasmussen chuckled.

  “We quite understand—we’re being too noisy. You’ll have absolute silence, young man.”

  David shook his head.

  “I’ll need privacy and a book. I think Miss Boon knows which one.”

  Miss Boon locked eyes with David.

  “Are you quite certain about that?” she asked cautiously.

  “Quite.”

  “David, I don’t want you down here alone,” said Cooper quietly.

  “Max can stay,” said David, wandering back toward the door. “Oh, and I’ll want coffee—lots of it, please. Plenty of sugar and cream.”

  Dr. Braden started to object, but Rasmussen silenced her with a furious glance.

  “If I’ve learned to respect anything, it’s the demands of genius,” he said. “Of course David can have whatever he desires. We will give him his privacy.” The man reached into his pocket and handed a slim communications device to Max. “Press this if you need anything. I expect that you’ll notify us immediately if the door is opened?”

  Max glanced at Cooper, who nodded his acquiescence.